faced vender, looked up at the woman and scowled. 'We are discussing the sale of enchanted weapons here,' he snapped. 'Do not offer us the ill favor of a woman's presence during such manful talk!'
Ignoring him, the masked stranger stepped past the men to stand before a table where four swords lay beside their jeweled scabbards. Each blade gleamed slightly, casting just enough of a glow to be discernible in the shadows under the awning.
'Those are priceless treasures!' squawked the seller, bounding angrily to his feet, confronting the unwanted visitor. 'You defile them with your very eyes!'
The woman sniffed loudly, the sound of contempt drawing the seller's eyes to narrow slits of fury. 'How dare you-!'
He reached as if to seize her wrist then froze in reaction to something he detected in the woman's eyes, the only part of her visible through the masking robe. His face suddenly went pale, and he took a step away.
The woman flipped her hand above the four swords, a gesture of disdain. A gust of wind puffed across the table, sweeping a cloud of sparkles into the air. She turned to look at the other three men seated on the floor, all of whom had been watching the confrontation with narrow-eyed intensity.
'Faerie dust,' she said contemptuously. 'He could make his own nose glow, if he patted it onto his face. These blades aren't magic-and this scum wouldn't know a magic sword if it pierced his black heart.'
'Eh?' One of the men was already on his feet, a heavy scimitar appearing in his hands as if by his own brand of magic. He waved it at the vendor while he examined the table. The four blades sparkled a bit, but so did the wood and the sleeve of the seller's robe where it had been near the dust.
'How did you know that?' demanded the scimitar-swordsman, but the woman had already left the tent. He showed no inclination to follow. Instead, with his two fellows, he closed in upon the cringing merchant.
Through still more booths she made her way, increasing impatience visible in her haste, and in the momentary carelessness that let the masking robe fall away to expose a smooth jaw, a curving cheek. One of the vigilant guards, seeing this, moved jerkily toward her, ready to rebuke this disgraceful display of flesh, but one reproving look from those blue eyes reminded him of some other, very pressing, business in the opposite direction.
Moving from stall to stall, the masked woman fingered a selection of rings and baubles, held faux jewelry up to the sunlight, rustled through the pages of several dark-bound books that one seller kept concealed in a locked strongbox She watched a conjurer for several minutes, as he pulled smoking images from a cauldron then caused baubles, weapons, and even a goat to disappear. Her eyes gleamed briefly as the conjurer began to chant; then she snorted and turned away as he revealed, to her, that his skill was naught but sleight of hand. Nowhere did she find anything to pique true interest.
With a muttering of disgust, she stalked out of the last stall, seeing that several groups of bearded, angry men were huddled at either end of the narrow walkway. The agent of the caliph was walking away, being taunted by several other buyers, including the bald cleric who had competed with the caliph's buyer. With a great show of excitement, the crowd was pressing around the corral as the fat merchant, with two brutish henchmen hauling on the restraints; ceremoniously brought forward the young black dragon.
'Congratulations!' declared the fat seller to the bald cleric, with a look of cool triumph. 'You have purchased a superior guardian for your temple, capable of securing your treasures against all who might come against you!'
The masked woman quietly inched her way to the front of the crowd. The gaunt cleric, noticing her, twisted his face into a sneer and advanced to push this insolent female out of the way of his trophy. He hesitated then, for her hood fell back a little, revealing a proud face, beautiful in spite of lines of age and worry, and a neat bun of gray hair. Beneath the masking cloak could now be glimpsed the shoulder, crimson red, of a neat gown.
'You'd better have a look at that dragon's collar,' declared the woman in cold, contemptuous tones, addressing the thin, gaping priest. 'It's no more magical than the pot you pissed in this morning.'
Then she disappeared.
Chapter 5
Mysterious Mission
Coryn was wrapped in a blanket, seated by the fire and sipping a mug of strong tea. Her grandmother had fussed about for a time, getting her settled and warmed. Now, however, Umma cleared her throat, looking at Coryn sternly.
'Tell me what this is about, young lady!' she demanded. 'Showing up on my floor, soaking wet, scaring me out of a perfectly good nap? Why, the very idea!'
'I–I'm not sure, myself. I was hunting up on the bluff-I left the village… why, it was just this morning,' the girl said, half in wonder, half stalling. Slowly, she reconstructed events. 'There was a good deer trail, and I thought I could maybe get close to the herd. I promised Papa I'd bag a doe and a fawn, and of course, he told everyone else. I guess I went too far, farther than I should have.'
Umma gestured, a command to 'hurry up and spit it out.'
'Walrus-men!' Coryn gasped, the full horror of the memory returning in a rush. 'There was a hunting party of them, and they caught me against the gorge. I sensed them up on the ridge, knew they nearly had me in a trap. But I shot three of them, Umma-right away! Let me tell you how-'
'I'm sure you shot them, Girl. But the rest?'
Coryn frowned. Her grandmother was impatient, always cutting off her explanations. 'Well, I started to run, down the valley. But the slope was too steep, and I was trapped against a big rock. One of them jumped on me, had me pressed into the snow. He was going to stab me with his tusks, right through my heart!'
'So how did you end up here, on my floor?' Umma's eyes narrowed suspiciously. 'Like to scared the life outta me! Not to mention all this snow you tracked in-why, look at that mess! Who's going to clean that up?'
'I will,' Coryn replied meekly, with the momentary thought that perhaps the thanoi were not really the most frightening thing she had faced that day. Not when Umma was frowning down at her with a look that seemed capable of summoning storm clouds into a clear blue sky.
' 'Course you will. But that can wait. Now tell me! No dodging and weaving, now. What happened to get you down off the bluff and here into this soggy puddle on what used to be a nice rug?'
'Well, I'm not really sure
She squinted, trying to remember while deciding exactly how much she should tell. 'I don't really know the word… but I said it out loud, and I felt a strange flash, and here I am, on your floor.'
Umma's bony fingers wrapped around Coryn's wrist in an iron-hard clamp. 'Think, Girl!' demanded the old woman. Her dark eyes flashed, lightning brewing within that great storm. 'What did you say? What word? Where did you learn this word? And what was the word?'
'I honestly don't know, Grandma! I thought of it right away, but now it's like the whole sound and shape of it is gone, wiped right out of my mind. But… I guess… I guess it was one of the words I read in your book. You know, the one you keep… um… under your mattress.' Coryn braced for the eruption of the lightning, or-even worse-the searing lash of her grandmother's tongue.
She was surprised, however, when suddenly the steely clasp on her wrist eased, as Umma leaned back in her chair and regarded the young woman with a strange expression that Coryn could only describe as 'amused.' Suddenly conscious of her matted hair, her soggy shirt and leggings, tad the chill that was soaking through to her bones, Coryn couldn't hold back a flash of irritation. 'What's so darn funny?' she demanded.
To that, Umma cracked a single sharp bark of laughter. Then her expression grew stern and full of dangerous lightning again. 'You mean to tell me you been sneakin' more peeks at my old tomes? Why, them books ain't got a lick o' useful writin' in them anymore. Not since the gods of magic went away, before you was even born, Girl! Why are you wastin' time like that?'
The question, Coryn sensed, was far more than rhetorical. It was some kind of test. She drew a breath, intended to take her time forming an answer that might get her into trouble, but she was ever impulsive. A rush of
